 | Stories that might be true |  |
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A soul was in each hour, that sped
So swiftly past, with Thee;
They stay not with their kindred fled,
But come again to me;
As if a sweet amends to pay
They come my heart to cheer,
When Thou art gone, because their stay
Was short when Thou wert near!
So swiftly past, with Thee;
They stay not with their kindred fled,
But come again to me;
As if a sweet amends to pay
They come my heart to cheer,
When Thou art gone, because their stay
Was short when Thou wert near!
A soul was in each flower that then
We gathered; still they blow,
And o'er me, ere I sleep, again
In sweetness come and go;
I see them not, but near me set
Their odours round me weave
A chain of happy dreams, where yet
I walk with Thee at Eve!
We gathered; still they blow,
And o'er me, ere I sleep, again
In sweetness come and go;
I see them not, but near me set
Their odours round me weave
A chain of happy dreams, where yet
I walk with Thee at Eve!
Our thoughts were like the bees, dear Friend,
That through the summer hours
Upon a widening circuit wend,
Yet never leave the flowers;
No marvel they should come again
With sweetness in their track,
To show where they were straying then
And bring the honey back!
That through the summer hours
Upon a widening circuit wend,
Yet never leave the flowers;
No marvel they should come again
With sweetness in their track,
To show where they were straying then
And bring the honey back!
| Stories that might be true | |